Why is life so cruel?
Soon the cold takes over. I let it send shivers down my body as it hallows me out of any warmth I had left from earlier today. I become as cold as the midnight air and my entire body becomes numb. It becomes a numbness I have felt many times before. It is a numbness that glazes my eyes with a dry cold that I can no longer cry at the stars. This numbness is the nothing. The nothing that I receive as an answer to any question I have. The nothing is emptiness. The emptiness that has taken over my life. The emptiness that is my soul.
I fall asleep in the emptiness. But this emptiness is a void, a never ending void. So when I fall asleep, I am falling asleep into the emptiness that is I and my soul, but even then I am not actually sleeping, but instead, I am falling through that emptiness… and I never stop falling. I fall through the emptiness in my mind of what should be dreams as I sleep. And my sleep, it is only a limbo that I fall through till I awake, where I just continue to fall as in sleep. The worst part though, is that it’s a never ending cycle. I never stop falling. I never get a break or a chance to rest. I just keep falling. I fall through the bullshit of the day as I go through the motions of it. Then I fall through the reality of my emptiness at night when my eyes close.
I am always falling!
When I close my eyes I even see myself falling. I see myself start at the top of my eyelid and watch myself as I fall towards the bottom into nothing. Then it repeats, again and again, falling and falling. And it will never stop; we will never stop falling through our fears, our agony, and self-hatred.
Instead, those feelings have become a cushion that slows my descent into the pain striking abyss that I have become. There is no light at the end of this tunnel. There is no hope. It is the never ending cycle of nothing onto nothing. Disgust onto despair. Despair onto hopelessness. Hopelessness onto self-hatred. Self-hatred onto terror. And it is this terror that consumes us all. The terror that I can’t escape. The terror that has bridled itself with the emptiness inside of me that now, all I feel is its chilling clutch upon my very being. I just keep falling through it, always falling through the terrifying emptiness that has taken hold of me.
From this emptiness onto the next emptiness that is me, one can only just keep falling. I fall till it becomes a blur that no longer makes sense—that I don’t even care about anymore.
But yet, I still can’t kill myself.
Instead, I just keep falling.
The sound of birds chirping wakes me. My body is frigid and numb from the morning cold that it hurts to breathe and move. I lie on the bench as the sun rises, and watch its light greet me. Next to me is the gun that I wish took my life. I push myself up and grab it from the damp earth. I used to be vehemently against weapons, advocating that they were the greatest threat to my nation’s people. But I guess guns really don’t kill people after all. It’s the people behind the trigger that do.
I laugh at the sheer disbelief of how fucking pathetic my life is. “I can’t even kill myself!”
The birds keep chirping.
I am my own joke.
I hear the rumble of a car approach from behind. I quickly grab the weapon and place it inside my sweater pocket. The car doors open and two college kids come out to the edge of the overlooking. One poses for a picture by raising their hands up around the orb of the rising sun as the other takes it. They give me a look, and leave just as quickly as they came. I am alone again.
God, fucking selfies.
Isaac would have laughed at them with me—why did you save me! Why didn’t you just go for the helicopter and get away? Huh!
I grab the gun and stand up, aiming it at my heart.
“Just let me do it!”
My hands shake. I hurl the pistol above the overlook, and it disappears into the foliage below. Fuck you Isaac! Fuck you for saving me. Fuck you for getting yourself killed. Fuck you for not letting me kill myself! Fuck you! Fuck you for making me know you! Fuck you for making me love you!
I sit back down. I look for his lighter in my pockets, but realize it’s fallen onto the cold earth below me. I pick it up and try lighting it—right it’s broke. I stare at the thirteen stars and etched away quote. I said I’ll carry his dreams. I stand up, wiping my face. “I’ll do it Isaac. I’ll lose, they’ll win, they always do. But I’ll try.”
XXXV
“That’s my story.”
The Psychologist looks at his keyboard and papers before him, and begins jotting stuff down. “That was definitely an earful.”
The Commissar goes to a corner table and refills his coffee, and sits back down.
“Now,” speaks the Psychologist. “We have to figure out if you’re sane or not. So I will start by asking you a variety of questions. Do you feel different, or better?”
“Not really, I still feel like shit and hate what I’ve done… and myself.”
He looks down at his paper, then glances back at me. “Okay—”
I push my chair out and rise, inhaling deep. I cough—I must still be sore from my tour. The Commissar stands quickly, his hand back on his hip.
The Psychologist waves him down and addresses me, “What is it?”
“Maybe I do feel a little different.” Realizing my step is lighter.
The Psychologist raises his eyebrows, begging me to continue.
“I feel a little relieved I guess. Like a burden is not so heavy on me now. That I kinda accept myself a bit more.”
“Okay, next question then. It has been some time since your last combat experience, and over a month getting here and situated. Have you found out the answer to your question by now?”
“What, where do the empty and destroyed ones go?”
“Yes.”
“No, I haven’t.”
He looks down at his papers with a sigh. “I’m sorry about that. I think this session has gone on long enough today. You will go back to your cell. I will need to evaluate your story tonight some more.”
The Commissar beckons us to rise. The door opens from the outside and I take a step. “Well now that I think about it. Maybe I have.”
The Psychologist looks back up, interested but also tired of this little game. “I think the shells of once to be men like me, they go on that little paper there on your desk, written down by you. Then, they are squished together into one stack and shoved into your tiny filing cabinet. Then…” I pause coughing again—maybe it’s all those ancients I used to smoke. But I feel a sting of anxiety rise in my belly too.
His gazing eyes peer into mine. Like the eyes of that Herculean. “Then what?”
“Then, they are taken one day to a shredder, and one by one. Each little empty shell is destroyed for good as they are ripped apart into little pieces. By the people that are supposed to help them. By the foundation that promised them so much. That promised them hope, security, peace. And when that was destroyed they promised valor and honor. That fighting was the right thing. And when that was destroyed…” I fumble the Medal of Honor and Herculean artifact in my pocket. The anxiety is lurching in my throat.
The Commissar walks towards me, but the Psychologists pauses him for a moment. “Go on Peter.”
“When that’s destroyed. That’s how I end up here. And later shredded…”
My younger self appears in the corner. “I told you not to tell Peter. I told you to go back and fight.”
I continue, my voice squeaking now, and they look at me concerned. “Because I told you everything that they didn’t want told. So I’ll go into that cabinet of forgotten files for my actions.”